


Three Gifts

by chiarascura



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Minor Fenris/Hawke, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slavery, Wintersend, Wintersend Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiarascura/pseuds/chiarascura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orana adjusts to life in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. oleander

**Author's Note:**

  * For [electricshoebox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy the story!! I love Orana and also Merrill, and exploring how Orana would navigate her new life in Kirkwall was an awesome prompt.

Orana wandered through the market stalls in Hightown, meandering from merchant to merchant. She had yet to purchase anything, still uncomfortable spending Master Hawke’s money on things for herself. Her hand skimmed over a table of jewelry, wondering how the glass beads or gold chain would look around her own neck. She had never worn anything quite so fine before.   
  
Bodahn ran the household and shopped for general items, knowing the merchants and the goods much better than Orana did, so she had no reason to seek anything out specifically today. Even if he didn’t control the budget, it was her day off and he would not have wanted her to resupply the household anyway. Things in Kirkwall were so strange.   
  
Even so, she couldn’t shake the anxiety that Master Hawke would find her wandering and scold her for shirking her duties. He had emphasized more than once that she could make her own decisions, she was not a slave any longer. Being told was different than knowing.  
  
Slowly, she ambled through the crowded walkway. The Hightown market was different than the one she was used to, but some things never changed. The glittering armor reflected brief glimpses of sun through the clouds, weapons clanged gently against their metal racks with the force of the breeze through the tunnel leading to Lowtown, merchants bellowed to each other and to passers-by, the scent of roasting meat wafted through the air, reminding her of the midday meal she had forgotten today. Tables upon tables of jewelry, old coins, paperback books, wooden toys, and soft scarves stretched through the entire plaza. These were familiar sights.  
  
The market in Minrathous sprawled through three neighborhoods and it would have taken days for her to attend each stall. People used magic much more freely: fueling an oven where poultry spun slowly on a skewer, toymakers dancing a wooden puppet on strings for excited children, owners punishing errant slaves for misbehavior. There was far less poverty here in Hightown than she noticed in Minrathous.   
  
In Kirkwall, she had only left Hightown twice. She knew poverty existed, but it was thrust under the rug where the nobility didn’t have to see it, instead of beggars out in the open badgering for coin. She also couldn’t hide here with fewer elves outside the Alienage, couldn’t slip into a crowd and disappear without hearing slurs shouted her way. She stood out much more than she liked.   
  
Orana stopped before a flower seller, gazing at the different blossoms in long tall vases, herbs in baggies or pouches, medicinal plants in painted clay pots, and bouquets wrapped in shiny paper. She kept her hands to herself, fighting the urge to lift a pristine white bloom to her nose. She didn’t know what it was, but she thought it was quite beautiful. It was a plant certainly not native to Minrathous, but most of the flowers she knew were nowhere to be seen this far south.   
  
She felt eyes staring into her, and she folded her hands in front of her. She was not a slave, but the seller’s glare made her painfully aware of the brand and her _knife ears_. She glanced wistfully once more at the flower, idly wondering if she had enough coin for it in her pouch.   
  
Orana ducked her head and continued her path through the crowd, feeling blessedly invisible. She heard her name from somewhere behind her. Dread spiked in her chest. A flashback of her own punishment in the marketplace after dropping a basket of wet goods for the household, watching them splash across the pavement, knowing they were ruined, screaming with every slash of the whip. Could it be—  
  
“Hello, Orana,” this time, gentler and closer. She was in Kirkwall, she knew that voice, she was safe. Orana exhaled shakily, felt her shoulders relax a bit, and Merrill appeared from the crowd.   
  
Orana smiled. “Good afternoon, Messere.”  
  
Merrill shook her head with a small smile. “Oh no, I’m no messere. Just Merrill. We’ve talked about this.” Her eyes softened with pity and Orana felt it pierce the pleasure of familiar face like a needle through fabric, leaving a red stitch in her chest.   
  
“Of course.” Orana dipped her head in obeisance.   
  
Merrill sighed, but looped her arm through Orana’s. “Are you doing some shopping today, too?” They began to walk together, weaving through the crowd. “I came to look for some elfroot, I can never seem to keep my own alive. I don’t have much of a green thumb. Maybe it needs more sunlight? The hole in the roof doesn’t seem to let much light in, only rain and birds. But the merchant was all out today. I’ll just have to come back again later.” Merrill seemed content to carry the conversation, talking about the children she watched trying to steal some bread, more likely a game than necessity, a necklace with turquoise beads and a leather strap that she had seen at the jeweler’s, the same flowers Orana herself had stopped to view.   
  
Orana listened cheerfully, content to let Merrill ramble along, pulling Orana in her wake. She was easy to listen to, never overstepping Orana’s careful boundaries or asking her to add anything more than she was comfortable with. They spent another half hour together before Orana couldn’t put off the anxiety of being away from the mansion for so long. “Thank you messere—” Merrill glared at her. “Merrill,” she corrected, “for the company. It has been very pleasant.”  
  
Merrill beamed as Orana said her name, and squeezed where she gripped Orana’s arm. “Oh, it was my pleasure! I do love visiting the market, even though sometimes all the people are a bit much.” Merrill disengaged from where their arms were linked, and Orana felt a little colder.  
  
“Wait here, just a moment.” Orana waited for Merrill to nod inquisitively before dashing off to the flower seller. She reached out to pick the bloom that had caught her eye earlier, paid the glaring merchant, and returned to where Merrill stood.  
  
She held out the flower. “For you.” Orana’s stomach twisted as Merrill’s face crumpled in confusion, but politely reached out and took the stem from her.  
  
“Oh, it’s… lovely…” Merrill clearly tried to mask her feelings, but she had little practice. For most of her life, Orana relied on her ability to read people’s masked emotions. Her life depended on it, working for a spiteful owner. The tiny dip in Merrill’s brow, the slight tightening of the wrinkles at her eyes, her hesitance before reaching out all showed her disappointment.   
  
Orana’s stomach sank. She dropped her eyes to the ground. She wondered how quickly she could get back to the mansion, planned out her escape route. “Did you have oleander, back in Tevinter?” Merrill still sounded gentle, but in a painful, pitying way.   
  
The dread rose in her throat like bile. “No, serrah.” _Oleander_. She would remember that.  
  
Merrill’s mouth quirked. Her voice filled with cheer once again. “Right, well, it’s usually used for blood magic, here. It’s poisonous if you eat it, and, well, in Dalish legend, it was one of Mythal’s punishments. Women who wronged their families ate it, their blood lit on fire, and it fueled whatever vengeance the family wanted.”   
  
Orana’s face burned, and her eyes and stomach sank to the floor. It was little wonder why Merrill was unimpressed with the gift.“I just liked the bloom. It’s… pretty.”   
  
Merrill’s hand gently gripped Orana’s upper arm in reassurance. “It is a lovely bloom, even if it isn’t… known for the best things. Thank you so very much for the gift.” Her voice sounded genuine, but Orana refused to look up to see.    
  
She nodded and curtsied out of habit. “Good day, Messere. I need to return to the estate.” As Orana walked away, she missed the heat of Merrill’s hand on her arm. She flew up the stairs and turned the corner, trying to put the embarrassing moment out of her mind. 


	2. ginger snapper

Orana brought the small container of ginger to her nose, inhaling the scent. It smelled like home, and Orana had never hated the spices in the south as much as she did when compared to the ones she knew. They lacked the flavor, the heat, the bite that she relished to in Tevinter. Slaves were not often permitted to use expensive ingredients for their own meals, and were never allowed to eat the same dishes as their masters. Only on holidays could slaves purchase higher quality spices, but they were nothing like the ginger she held now, which would have been reserved for the highest class only.  
  
Orana stood in the kitchen blending flavors, trying to replicate the snapper Irith made each Satinalia for the house slaves, with what meager supplies she had. She felt reticent using any of the ingredients she found in Messere Hawke’s pantry, knowing they weren’t hers.  
  
Bodahn took care of cooking for the family most days. Occasionally, he would ask Orana to lend a hand, but rarely did she spend time in the kitchen. In Minrathous, she had been a house slave for Mistress, most often helping Mistress dress or cleaning up after her. Her cooking experience was limited to what she watched Irith cook when she waited to bring a tray upstairs.  
  
She still hadn’t adjusted to the way Master Hawke ignored social customs. He, Mistress Leandra, Bodahn, and Sandal all ate meals together, breaking every rule Orana ever knew. He had invited her, multiple times but she never accepted, usually taking a slice of bread with a slab of meat or cheese and bringing it to the small room where she slept to eat alone. Even now, after spending months in the household, she couldn’t bring herself to attend the family dinner.  
  
Today, she wanted to cook something different, something that reminded her of home. She was so wrapped up in preparing the meal that she didn’t hear Messere Fenris until he was standing beside her.  
  
“Good afternoon, Orana.” She jumped as she whipped her head around to look at him.  
  
She curtsied formally at his appearance, holding her messy hands away from him. “Greetings, Messere. Can I assist you?”  
  
He shook his head, moving around her in the kitchen. “No, thank you. I have just come for a quick snack.” He looked through the basket where fresh fruit was kept, finding a decent apple and taking a bite.  
  
Orana felt paralyzed. She did not know the protocol for this situation. Should she leave until he was finished? Would he tell Master Hawke that she was using the kitchen without permission? He knew better than anyone here what being a slave entailed, and Orana felt even more foolish around him, since he could point out every misstep she made.  
  
Fenris seemed content to just watch her for a moment as he chewed his apple, looking thoughtful. “What are you making?”  
  
Orana looked down at the counter where her supplies lay. “Ginger Snapper, Messere.” She finally convinced herself to purchase the fish from the market, spending her pin money on the fillet and the spices.  
  
Fenris nodded and took another bite. “Don’t let me stop you.” He sounded genuine and slightly amused, but Orana couldn’t make herself move yet.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, feeling her nerves fraying under his scrutiny. “I should not use Master’s supplies and his tools without permission.”  
  
Orana kept her eyes on the unfinished food, not wanting to look up and see Fenris’ expression. She can feel his gaze on her face, steady and burning, and anxiety wells up in her chest.  
  
“He is not your Master.” His voice was steely, unrelenting. Orana felt herself flush.  
  
“Yes, Messere.”  
  
“Orana…” He hesitated. His voice came out gentler. “I understand if you do not feel comfortable here. It will likely take more time. You have nothing to fear from Hawke, or me, or anyone in this house.” He moved to stand in front of her, and tipped her chin up with one finger. He slipped into Tevene. “ _Little sister_ ,” he said, and she warmed at the affectionate word slaves used between each other. “ _Do not fear. Tell me your troubles_.”  
  
“ _I do not understand the rules here. Everyone eats together, everyone uses supplies, the dwarves are too kind. I do not know what to do, here. There is… too much. It is all too much_.” She twisted her hands in her apron and her eyes slid away from Fenris, unable to keep his gaze.  
  
“ _Yes. It is confusing. You will adjust. You do not need to fear_.” His words were simple, but they helped.  
  
She exhaled. Fenris had lived here much longer than she. If he could adjust, and could find someone like Messere Hawke to love him, there was hope for Orana, too.  
  
—  
  
Orana shifted the wicker basket in her hands, and took a deep breath. She knocked twice on the door she has been told was Merrill’s, the way she was taught to get attention, but not distract or annoy.  
  
Orana was still unused to the Alienage. She had a hard time seeing so many other elves around in varying states of poverty. The eyes of strangers sent a shiver down her spine, knowing they looked at her in her fine clothing, and wondered why she got better treatment. It was a jealousy she knew well.  
  
Merrill opened the door and Orana felt the butterflies flip around in her belly. “Orana! It’s so nice to see you! What are you doing here?” Merrill looked fresh-faced and bright, and Orana’s gaze slid away after a moment. Eye contact was not for slaves.  
  
Orana bowed her head in greeting and held out her basket. “Messere Merrill, I brought you something.”  
  
Merrill’s eyes lit up and she stepped outside, leaving the door ajar behind her. “Oh, that’s so sweet of you! What is it?”  
  
Orana opened the basket to hand the covered plate to Merrill. She removed the towel and the smell of the spices bloomed into the air. It sent a wave of homesickness through Orana, the good memories rising to the surface, and she watched Merrill’s reaction closely. “I made Ginger Snapper for you. It’s Tevene. We make it for Satinalia.”  
  
Merrill smiled, but it was a tentative, fragile thing. She brought the dish closer, and Orana could tell the thought was appreciated much more than the actual gift. “Oh Creators bless you, this is so thoughtful!”  
  
The smell of warm food drew looks from other elves continuing their business, and brought several children closer to see what was happening. Their faces were gaunt and dusty, clothes worn so thin that to reveal sharp angles of their thin bodies underneath. One more element in this sad place that Orana recognized.  
   
Merrill chirped with happiness as the children surrounded her. “Oh, hello Aren, Feyna, Elurin. Are you all enjoying the nice weather outside?”  
  
A girl who responded to one of the names nodded, but didn’t take her eyes from the basket.  
  
Merrill seemed torn, but answered small nod from Orana with a bright grin. Merrill began taking handfuls of the fish and passing them out until the plate was empty.  
  
Orana kept her face placid and unperturbed, but inside her belly roiled. Merrill didn’t want to eat the meal. Orana couldn’t fault the woman for feeding hungry children, it in fact endeared her more, made the soft warm feeling in her belly expand. But she read how unappetizing Merrill found the meal in the woman’s face, the relief at not having to fake any more enthusiasm for it.  
  
Merrill chatted with the children as they drifted off to continue their games or chores, until she was left with Orana alone in front of her home. “Thank you ever so much for the meal. Would you like to come in?”  
  
Orana nodded and followed her back into the little hovel. Even if they wouldn’t share the meal, they could spend the evening together as friends.


	3. the "halla"

Orana shaved a sliver off the little wooden figurine and smiled. The scales were coming along nicely, and this little fish would be much better than the last one.  
  
Orana hadn’t carved anything since leaving Minrathous, and the act of creation soothed her. Each stroke of her knife took away a little bit more, but left something smooth and beautiful in its place.   
  
She sat before the hearth in the study, humming to herself while Hawke and Fenris practiced reading a few feet away on the couches. Their gentle murmurs and the warmth of the fire felt comfortable, peaceful. Slowly, by inches, she relaxed into the household.   
  
She rubbed a thumb over the fish’s eye, recalling the last time she cooked with fish for Merrill. The satisfied smile slipped from her face and the discouraged feeling overtook her again.   
  
Fenris grumbled behind her, announcing his displeasure with his task and he made his way over to the fire. She looked up as he took a spot beside her. He leaned his forearm on the shelf above the fireplace, glaring into it.   
  
Hawke huffed. “Great. Let’s take a break, and I’ll go get some snacks. Orana, would you like anything?”  
  
She glanced over and shook her head. “No thank you, Messere.”  
  
Hawke left the room and Fenris let out an exhausted breath. “Reading is much more difficult than I expected it to be.”  
  
Orana nodded in sympathy, even though she could not really add much. She had never learned to read, and likely would never. She went back to putting the finishing touches on the fins, and Fenris finally looked at the motion of her hands. “Do you enjoy carving?”   
  
“Yes, Messere. I used to carve miniatures for father and some of the other slaves. They were much more delicate than this, as I have been out of practice for some time.”  
  
Fenris nodded and held out a hand, asking silently to examine it. Orana placed it in his palm and waited nervously for his judgment. “This is excellent, Orana. I am impressed.”  
  
Orana smiled at the praise and felt her cheeks warm. She had slowly grown used to acceptance and encouragement in this household, but praise was still something she had not fully grasped. “I could make one for you, if you like,” she offered.  
  
Fenris stared thoughtfully at the miniature, turning it over in his hand. “I imagine Hawke would like a Mabari.” Orana looked over at the dog curled up on the sofa beside where Hawke had been sitting. He snuffled in his sleep, and Orana thought about what it would take to create one that looked like the affectionate beast.  
  
“I wonder what Merrill would like,” Orana said, and she froze as she realized the words had slipped out. It had been just an idle thought, never meant to be spoken. Now the words were out, and she couldn’t take them back.  
  
She looked down at the knife in her hands. Fenris eyes’ burned into her, and she felt herself flush with shame. Showing affection was a weakness in Minrathous. Once others knew you cared about someone, they could use it against you. Love left one vulnerable.   
  
“I think a halla, most likely,” he replied. His voice was light, like she had not just admitted something of such import.   
  
Her mouth was dry and it was difficult to ask. “What’s a halla?”   
  
Fenris paused as he thought. “It’s a large beast, like a horse, but with big antlers. The Dalish have them. Did you not hear the stories as a child?”   
  
Now that he mentioned it, a small memory came to the front of her mind. An older slave telling stories of the glory of the Dalish. They rode snowy white halla across the land, partners in the clan rather than beasts of burden. She liked the idea but had never put an image to the concept before.   
  
Orana thought about the horses she had seen. She had never been very close to one, and could only vaguely remember what they looked like. “Antlers?”  
  
Fenris handed the fish back to her and gestured above his head. “Large… bones, I suppose, that come out of its head.” Orana blinked up at him.   
  
In all honesty, she had only ever seen domesticated animals brought to the market. Goats, chickens, dogs, cats, small rodents. Even horses, from a distance, were vaguely familiar to her, but she could not recreate one with any certainty. A halla… That would be a challenge to carve.  
  
But if Fenris said that’s what Merrill would like, Orana thought it wouldn’t hurt to try.  
  
Fenris smiled kindly at her as Hawke re-entered the study, and drifted back to the couches, the lovers bickering gently as they began their lesson anew.   
  
Orana looked at the fish in her hand again.  
  
  
—  
  
  
  
Merrill examined at the miniature in her hands. Orana squirmed in her chair at the lack of reaction.   
  
“It’s lovely,” Merrill said slowly, examining it closely. “But, er, what is it?”  
  
Orana tried to keep her face from falling. She couldn’t blame Merrill, the figure probably didn’t look anything like a halla.   
  
The figure was vaguely dog-shaped, with a long neck and a triangular face. Large “antlers” emerged from the back of its head along its backside, curving gently downward. The legs ended in cloven hooves like a goat’s, with tufts of hair around each joint. It had a long mane and tail like a horse’s, painted dark against the bright white of its fur.   
  
“It’s a halla,” Orana whispered. She couldn’t lift her eyes from the table and face the confusion, maybe rejection or disgust. She tried so hard, but like all of her gifts for Merrill, it backfired. She wanted to run, to escape, to never face another disaster that happened every time she tried to do something nice for Merrill.  
  
Merrill’s voice sounded artificially bright. “Oh, of course it is! How lovely!” Her hand was warm when it reached over to grasp Orana’s. “Thank you so much, it’s so dear to me.” Their fingers slid against each other in a warm embrace.   
  
Orana nodded, swallowing her tears. She met Merrill’s eyes with a watery smile and nodded, not letting her gaze slip away. “I just… I thought you would like it. Since you don’t have your clan anymore, I thought it would be a happy reminder.”  
  
The green in Merrill’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “It is.” She looked back at the halla in her hand and gripped it tighter before looking back up at Orana. “I miss them dearly. I remember the halla in the Brecilian forest. They were so gentle and peaceful, helping when we needed them.”  
  
Merrill sat back in her chair, keeping both the halla and Orana’s hand in her grip her own hands, and her eyes drifted as she reminisced. “I remember once, I went with my friends to check on the halla in the middle of the night. We wanted to play with them, as children want to play with any animal they see as friendly, but I’m sure they didn’t appreciate three small elves climbing all over them after dark. The Keeper caught us before we got over to them, scolding us thoroughly.” Merrill giggled and sighed happily. “The next day she showed us how to properly approach a halla with respect.”  
  
The fire crackled in the heart as Merrill got lost in her memories and Orana imagined the scene she described. What it would be like to have that kind of freedom to explore and learn, to have carefree friends her age, to be a child and not just a small slave.  
  
“That sounds wonderful,” Orana breathed, and Merrill returned to the present, met her eyes again.   
  
“It was. And this,” she lifted the halla, “will always remind me of it. Thank you so much, my dear friend.”  
  
Orana blushed and ducked her head, finally accepting Merrill’s sincerity. She squeezed the hand in her palm, and Merrill laced their fingers together.


	4. the letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canon death off-screen, Merrill's clan and Keeper

Orana looked at the parchment in her hands, the way the scribbles on the page looped and swirled in unrecognizable patterns. Her heart ached.  
  
It had been three days since Merrill gave it to her. Orana had looked at the paper so many times already, unfolded it and rubbed her fingers across the words, knowing she couldn’t read it but still examining it anyway. She desperately wanted to know what it said, but the shame of going to Merrill and admitting she could not read paralyzed her.   
  
She refolded the paper into a small heart shape and placed it back in her box of precious objects. She had not been allowed her own belongings in the past, and certainly hadn’t brought any of those with her when she left Minrathous. That box had been only a handswidth long and a few inches deep, carved by her father and presented for her sixth birthday. The dark wood was polished to a nice sheen and the edges had little vines and flowers that eventually wore down after Orana’s constant touching. Inside, she kept only the smallest, most precious objects. A marble that she won playing with some of the other children in Mistress’ palace; a flower she dried by hanging upside down until its petals were yellow and fragile; two miniatures of foxes, one made by her papa and the other her own first attempt at an animal.   
  
All of it, left behind.   
  
Her new memory box was bigger, twice as large and much lighter in color. She kept it under her bed, hidden from the world even though she knew it was safer here than her last one. Inside were things she collected for her new life. A hairpin with colored stones from the market, a carved mabari after Serrah Hawke’s own sweet pet, a piece of blue glass, and now Merrill’s letter.   
  
She hugged the box to her chest, resting her cheek on the smooth surface.   
  
The main door to the estate opened and closed, and footsteps marched through the house. Orana replaced the box in its spot and rose to go greet the new arrival.  
  
Messere Hawke looked terrible. He was covered in blood and his clothes were ragged, which wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary. However, the haunted look on his face was unusual, one she had only seen after Lady Leandra died.   
  
“Messere?” Orana went to where he stood, in front of the hearth, unmoving. “Messere Hawke?”  
  
He rose from his reverie and looked over, finally seeing her. “Orana, yes. Hello.”  
  
“Can I help you?” She moved closer, reached out a hand but pulled it back before actually touching his sleeve. “Shall I run a bath?”  
  
He nodded absently, and ran a grimy hand over his face and beard. “That would be nice, thanks.”   
  
She dipped her head and scurried off.   
  
He entered the bathroom just as she was filling the tub with the last bucket of water, and he sat down with a heavy thump on a stool beside it. “Maker, what a disaster.”  
  
Orana was silent. She waited, knowing that with enough time and quiet, he would likely open up.   
  
Messere Hawke’s breath was heavy when he exhaled. “I thought that if I helped Merrill, I could keep her out of trouble. Maybe the mirror wouldn’t be evil, maybe we could kill the demon and keep it from hurting anyone else.” His laugh was humorless, bitter and dark. “I should know by now that nothing ever goes according to plan. The Keeper tried to protect Merrill, and took the demon inside her. We had to kill her. The whole clan came looking for her, and… they attacked us. We would have died, we couldn’t, we had to…” He buried his face in his hands again, leaning forward on his knees looking so defeated.  
  
When he said Merrill’s name, Orana’s belly clenched in fear, knowing what was to come would be bad. She didn’t think it would be this bad. Her Keeper and her clan, all dead. Everyone from her old life, gone.  
  
Orana brought her hands to her sides, releasing the tight grip of her twisting fingers. “If you don’t need anything else, Messere, I…”  
  
He nodded absently, clearly still lost in his head. “Thank you, Orana.”  
  
She fled the bathroom, the Hawke estate, Hightown. All she could think about was Merrill completely alone, without any family or home. Fled everything she knew, never to return to the way things were before, having to forge a new path ahead. It was achingly familiar.  
  
Orana took a deep breath as she stood before Merrill’s door. It felt surreal to see all the other elves in the Alienage going about their business, like nothing was wrong, like the world was as it always is. She supposed that for them, it was true. She knocked.  
  
It took a long time for Merrill to open the door. Her wide eyes, usually glittering green and gold, were now glassy and red-rimmed. “Orana, what are you doing here?” Even her voice was dull, lacking the cheerful surprise that usually accompanied Orana’s visits.  
  
“Messere Hawke said you… I wanted to see you.” Merrill didn’t move, just looked at her with that disconcerting empty gaze. Orana resisted the urge to squirm, and she wondered if this was a bad idea. Maybe Merrill just wanted to be alone, to grieve in her own way, without the unwanted presence of a former slave.   
  
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but she stood aside to let Orana into her home.   
  
The small front room was an awful mess: clothes strewn across the floor, pages from books torn apart and scattered, a ceramic mug laying in pieces.  
  
Merrill glided across the room and disappeared into the back, floating in grief above the mess.   
  
Orana began to pick up the pieces.   
  
An hour later, the house looked slightly better. The floor was clear and all the broken things were in a bin ready to be taken out, and the books and knick-knacks replaced on their shelves. If only Merrill was as easy to put back together.   
  
Orana hesitated in the doorway. She looked at where Merrill curled up on her bed, knees to her chest and chin resting on her hands, staring sightlessly into the strange twisted mirror.   
  
Orana moved quietly to the bed and sat beside her. She gripped her dress between her fingers, wanting to reach out to Merrill but not knowing if that was a good idea.  
  
After a few minutes, Merrill’s breathing matched her own. A few minutes after that, Merrill slid onto her side and placed her head in Orana’s lap. Orana threaded her fingers into Merrill’s hair and stroked gently. The fabric of her dress became damp, and Merrill’s shoulders shook with the force of her tears. Orana began to hum a lullaby, one that stood out in the only memory of her mother.   
  
Later, after Merrill had calmed and fallen asleep, Orana stayed. Her fingers petted Merrill’s soft hair and she thought about her mother, her papa, the friends she left in Minrathous, leaving the only home she knew to be thrust into the chaos of Kirkwall. Meeting Merrill. She looked down at Merrill’s face, and traced the dark lines of her tattoo with a gentle finger. She wondered why her gifts hadn’t worked, why they had all failed so spectacularly.   
  
Merrill’s eyes opened slowly, and in the dim light of the burnt-down candles, they glittered again. “Orana,” Merrill said, and her voice was scratchy with tears.   
  
“I’m here,” she whispered. “Do you want something to eat?”  
  
Merrill nodded, and sat up so Orana could shift out from under her. Orana moved into the kitchen, found meats and cheeses and hard bread in the tiny icebox. Merrill came into the room behind her and sat at the rickety table.   
  
They ate quietly together. Orana lit a few more candles and started a fire in the hearth. She hummed to herself as she put away the food and washed up, felt Merrill’s eyes following her and she tried to quash the spark that lit in her chest.  
  
“Why are you here, Orana?” Merrill’s voice was soft but after such long silence, it startled Orana.   
  
She looked at Merrill and clasped her hands together in front of her. “I know what it’s like to lose so much. I wanted to be here with you.”  
  
Merrill’s eyes grew watery and a tear escaped down her cheek. Orana slid beside her and pulled her into an embrace. Merrill cried for another minute into her shoulder, and Orana ran her hands across her back.   
  
—   
  
They sat curled together on Merrill’s bed, trading stories from childhood. Orana spoke of holidays when the slaves were allowed a few hours before bed to gather and celebrate together, gifts her father made, stories he would tell. Merrill remembered her time with her first clan, myths of the elven gods, the pain of great loss when her earliest friends were killed under mysterious circumstances.  
  
Merrill rested her face in the curve where Orana’s shoulder met her neck, arms and legs tangled together. It felt so right, so perfect. Despite the pain Merrill felt and her own sense of helplessness, Orana never wanted the moment to end.   
  
“Why didn’t you write me back?” Orana froze at Merrill’s words, fought to keep her body from stiffening up. “I wrote that letter for you. I thought, maybe…”  
  
Orana couldn’t speak.   
  
“That’s alright, if you didn’t want to write me back, I understand.” Merrill started to pull away, but Orana tightened her arms.   
  
“I—“ The words caught in her throat again. She swallowed, centered herself. Closed her eyes. “I never learned to read. I kept your letter, I just… don’t know what it says.”  
  
Merrill was quiet for a moment. Cold fingers touched her face, and Orana bit her lip to keep it from wobbling. She should never show weakness, never vulnerability—   
  
“Orana,” Merrill whispered, and the dam inside her opened. All the tender feelings she’d kept inside, hidden away and only exposed when she thought of Merrill late at night, safe and alone.   
  
Orana leaned forward and pressed their lips together.  
  
She had shared kisses before, chaste quick things in empty rooms or darkened hallways, always something to be hidden and secret. This was entirely different. Merrill was warm against her, long fingers pressing indents into her shoulders and chapped lips dry against hers. The spark in her belly grew, enflamed by Merrill’s nearness and the acknowledgement of her feelings.  
  
They parted slowly. Orana stayed close with her arms wrapped around Merrill and their foreheads resting together.   
  
“I don’t… I tried. I thought, if I showed you.” The words came out broken and jagged, but by some miracle, Merrill seemed to understand.  
  
“I loved your gifts,” she whispered. “I still have your little halla,” and her secret smile made all of the embarrassment and then anxiety worth it.  
  
Orana smiled. They would survive.


End file.
